To Be Free
by AMarguerite
Summary: A sequel to 'A Passion for the Absolute'. The Amis attempt to discover the truth in the months between the Battle of Hernani and the July Revolution, while Jehan helps Combeferre discover several personal truths he would rather have not confronted. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is a sequel to_ A Passion for the Absolute, _which you can find on my profile! Also, visit Abaisse to see the illustrations Hannah has made for each chapter! She's been immensely valugable and has helped devlop the ideas, the dialogue the character arcs, etc. She is less of a beta than a co-writer, really.

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_Hernani _had triumphed and Jehan was almost wild with delight. He had punched a classicist in the nose, he had a brand new doublet (sadly not as splendid as Gautier's, but one couldn't have it all) and, best of all, now _no one _could deny that Romanticism had its place. Society was shaking itself out of its ages-long slumber and Jehan had to throw his hat in the air in delight at the rumbles of revolution. It was the beat of the _Carmagnole _and the _Marseillaise_, the particular rattle of drums that lead the Republican Army to victory at Valmy- and what was a Romantic Army but an artistic Republican one? Jehan did the few steps he could remember of the _Carmagnole _in the street, then abruptly realized that he had lost Combeferre somewhere in the general Romantic mob that had poured out of the theatres to scrawl, 'Vive Victor Hugo!' on all the walls.

That was a pity- but Courfeyrac was walking off, grinning and smoking a cigarette with a newly contented air, so it wasn't a tragedy. Jehan resolved to find Combeferre tomorrow. After all, tonight was for celebrating the release of passion, the end of the antiquated constraints imposed on society by those too long in power. It was so glorious Jehan had to spread his arms out and whirl around in a circle for a bit, humming _Ca Ira _to himself. Then Bahorel was kind enough to give Jehan a stick of chalk and Jehan wrote a rude quatrain about Racine on the wall of the Comedie Francaise and entirely forgot about anything but what he could do with his stick of chalk.

This resulted in several more very rude couplets against Racine of which Jehan was extremely proud. When it was about dawn, Jehan remembered that Combeferre had not shared in the general outpouring of unconstrained passion, and decided that he ought to go take a nap before shaking Combeferre out of his mind-forged manacles- otherwise Jehan would get too tired and start speaking in improvised rhyming alexandrines about the evils of the classical unities of theatre. One cat-nap later and Jehan was full of enthusiasm (and blank verse, if not prose) once again.

"The truth will out," he told his lobster, as he fed it some of the oysters his landlady sent up as part of his breakfast every morning. Jehan was of the opinion that all living things deserved to be treated with respect and, for whatever reason, this had manifested itself in long, rather one-sided conversations with his pet lobster. "It needs a little help at times, don't you think, Hébert?"

Hébert waved his antennae in what Jehan interpreted as an approving fashion and began shoving bits of mollusk into his mouth with the tiny claws near his mouth.

"I think so- as Socrates would have it, each philosopher is but a midwife to the truth, but one does need midwives. Otherwise, who knows what complications could ensue?"

Hébèrt took a moment to wave one beribboned claw in the air.

"I am glad to see that you agree. It shows a certain wisdom, I think, gleaned from lobsteric knowledge of the secrets of the deep." He paused and, folding his arms, frowned at Hébert. "I still don't know what I am going to say to Combeferre, though, Hébert. I have to say, I'm really dreadfully put out at him. Courfeyrac was so upset and Enjolras just sort of… went on a mental holiday somewhere because he could not bear to be present in a world that so robbed him of happiness—ooh, I just want to _punch Combeferre in the throat_ when I think about it, and in general I am very fond of Combeferre."

Hébert twitched his antennae in the direction of the rest of Jehan's breakfast, in the vain hope of more raw oysters.

"Your lack of dedication to the problem at hand is very discouraging," Jehan said disapprovingly. "When the trumpets sound, the angels descend and the Great Judge asks you to account for your life, what will you say to Him? That you were too concerned with mollusks to help release a suffering fellow creature, trapped in a net from which he cannot escape?" Jehan rapped the side of the tank with a knuckle. "_I _didn't when I saw you trapped in a fisherman's net, Hébert. This is really very selfish of you. And Combeferre's got my only other clean doublet, mine's got chalk and claret all over it, and it's too could _not _to wear a doublet."

Hébert seemed properly abashed by that and scuttled back and forth in his tank a few moments before stopping by the side of his tank nearest to Jehan's closet and waving his claws several times. "Three with the right claw- alright, three to the right- ah ha, a riding costume. It's too cold for equestrian activities, Herbert, but I realize that you tried. You really cannot be blamed for a lack of a fashion sense since you… really don't have any occasion to develop one."

Hébert turned and scuttled into another part of his cage where he occupied himself turning over several small rocks at the bottom of his tank, apparently hurt to think that his fashion sense was being criticized by someone who thought that doublets were the Must Have of the Season. To make up for it, Jehan put on his riding boots anyways and dropped the last de-shelled oyster into Hébert's tank.

As he walked over to Necker, he thought over the past few months and decided that, if one looked at the objective evidence, Combeferre had been acting like an absolute bastard. Thus, when Combeferre opened the door to his room at Necker Hospital, he saw a furious Jehan who immediately pointed at him and said, in tones of utmost gravity, "_You grocer._"

"… good morning, Jehan," said Combeferre. "Would you like to come in?"

"Yes," Jehan replied, "but don't think that this means that I forgive you."

"I would never assume," Combeferre said dubiously, but tactfully enough. He held the door open and took Jehan's coat before asking, quite cautiously, "And what is it I have done to offend you, Jehan?"

Jehan folded his arms across his chest and refused to give over his hat to be hung up with his coat. "You really cannot guess, Combeferre?"

"… no."

Jehan harrumphed. "Combeferre, you are too smart for this. How could you _not _have noticed that you've been an absolute bastard ever since you took out Courfeyrac's stitches?"

"What?" asked Combeferre.

Jehan began to suspect that Combeferre was suffering more from the aftereffects of a very boozy and very late evening than he had originally expected. Combeferre was looking more than a little puzzled.

"Combeferre, you _just so happened_ to be negatively interfering in the happiness of two people I care very much about!" Jehan exclaimed, waving his hat around in frustration. "I am amazed that you are so surprised that I would upset about it! None of you bothered to _tell _me why the three of you had such a falling out in November and so I assumed _wrongly _that it was about Courfeyrac getting shot in the thigh, which he really can't be blamed for since it was my fault, but _no_, you all had a falling out because Enjolras happened to fall in love with Courfeyrac and Courfeyrac is falling in love with Enjolras and you took objection to it when it didn't concern you at all and really!" Jehan thwapped Combeferre across the upper arm with his hat. "How _stupid _is that? It's love! It doesn't need explanation or rationalization, it's _love, _Combeferre!"

Though admittedly taken aback, Combeferre was used to Jehan's sudden and unexpected spurts of eloquence and said, "Jehan, was that what was bothering you? I am sorry we did not tell you, but the matter resolved itself and I was simply being practical in the face of a problem—"

"But it's _not a problem_!" Jehan nearly shouted, his voice cracking down to a baritone.

Combeferre quietly closed and locked the door behind Jehan and offered him a chair- which Jehan, of course, refused in favor of pacing around and gestulating wildly.

"It is _not _a problem," Jehan repeated, less loudly, but no less passionately. "You say you're being practical? Well _I _say that there is no reason why we should let society be comfortable at the expense of the happiness of two people we both hold very dear. For God's _sake_, Combeferre, we are both _Jacobins _and we both follow _Rousseau _and we both _know _that the society in which we live is a corrupted and artificial old- old _stage gimmick _to hide the fact that our government is nothing more than institutionalized oppression. Why on _earth _would you want such a society, guarding itself with antiquated notions it values simply because they are antiquated, to live blindly and comfortably without the truth?"

"I… don't," Combeferre said, slightly bewildered.

"Oh really?" snapped Jehan. "Because that is _exactly _how you have been acting."

Combeferre opened his mouth, closed it and then moved to go put the neat stack of books by his bed into their proper places in the bookshelf. "I have _not _been acting like some sort of—"

"You've been acting _bourgeois_," said Jehan, which was the greatest insult he could think of. He felt bad at first for saying it, but remembered how upset Courfeyrac had been at the hiss-off of _Athalie_ (and how blind he'd been at first, attributing it only a leg wound), and then how shut-down Enjolras had been for over a month and hit Combeferre in the back of his head with his hat again. "Are you listening to me?"

"Ow- yes, I am and that was really unnecessary, Jehan."

"No it wasn't, you deserved it." Jehan folded his arms. "Combeferre you have acted condescending and wholly intolerable. You _say _that you care for Enjolras and Courfeyrac, but you certainly haven't been behaving like it."

"I care for them both very deeply," said Combeferre, beginning to sound actually offended, "and I consider them both to be very good friends, and for that reason I thought it necessary to point out the social issues—"

"I- I- I!" exclaimed Jehan, throwing his hat at the wall in disgust. "Just _listen _yourself Combeferre, it's not about _you_ it's about the two of them- and _really_, how can you consider Enjolras your friend if you still think that he has no understanding of social issues?"

Combeferre had the good grace to look dumbfounded. "I did not do anything of the ki—"

"There you go _again_- I! That's four times now, I-I-I-I, and _I _think that you displayed a shocking lack of understanding- in Enjolras's character, in the nature of society, in our natural right to be happy, in Courfeyrac's competence- though I excuse you on that one since Courfeyrac did actually defenestrate _himself _which is not really the sign of a competent person but he really has been making leaps and bounds despite the leg wound, or perhaps because of it- in, in considering _yourself _the axiom of the problem when it doesn't even concern you! You know the two of them, you care about the two of them, but you are not directly affected by the fact that they just so _happen _to be happiest when they are together. Would you go up to David and Jonathan and shake your head at them and tell them that they can no longer be as close as they were because the society they ended up changing finds their relationship uncomfortable? Combeferre, you're not making any sense at all."

"Society does still consider it as wrong and, no matter how much it displeases us, we still live within that society," Combeferre pointed out.

"Combeferre I don't see what's _wrong _with it!" Jehan exclaimed, utterly exasperated.

Combeferre continued to methodically reorganize his books. "Really, Jehan? You have no idea how a predominantly Catholic, newly conservative nearing-absolute monarchy would have a problem with two men kissing each other?"

Jehan threw his hands up in the air. "And so? It's not a perfect society, why should we care what they like or dislike? Look, Combeferre, I know that you spend most of your life thinking of social issues. The rest of us do too. If _Enjolras _and let me stress this again, if _Enjolras _doesn't think the approval of society a necessary blessing on his method of ensuring his own personal happiness, why on earth do you?"

"This is not about me, this is about society."

Jehan crossed his arms mulishly. "You have made it about yourself, Combeferre. Let's just take a moment to think why you had such a virulent reaction. I personally think it's a bit like someone who's just always had a broken toe and never realized it. You get around just fine on it, not really noticing that it's broken until someone brushes by or steps on it- and you get angry at them, not realizing that it's a hurt that you've been trying to guard against for years. It's no one's fault, really, but you've got a broken toe and that's what you have to address instead of getting angry at the person or people who alerted you to its existence."

Combeferre was beginning to get distinctly ruffled. Jehan could tell in the set of Combeferre's shoulders and the particular jerkiness of his movements. "Jehan, it is most decidedly not about me."

"Then why are you acting so defensive?"

"I am _not._"

"For your standards, you are _very _defensive, Combeferre. Just what the hell is going on? Can you at least ask that of yourself?"

"What is going on," Combeferre said, with deliberate coolness, "is that you are reading into this situation. If Enjolras chooses to ignore the greater social problems he has now entangled himself in, then that is his concern."

"Well, no honesty there, just a smidge more self-deception." Jehan pointed his hat at Combeferre. "Ask yourself then, why you are feeling so angry about Enjolras doing this?"

"I am not feeling angry."

"Yes you are."

"I know what I feel, Jehan," Combeferre said, shoving a textbook in between two others and then nearly whirling around to face Jehan. "Right now, I am not feeling angry with Enjolras. I do confess that I am feeling angry, but-" with a pointed look at Jehan "-I am not feeling angry about that."

"No, you know what you are feeling right now?" asked Jehan, grabbing Combeferre by the hands. "You are feeling irrationally angry about the entire situation because you feel betrayed that Enjolras did not follow your advice this _one time _and that I am pointing out to you that you are not outraged because of wider social issues but personal ones that you would like to pretend do not exist."

"That's not it at all," said Combeferre, equally exasperated.

"Then _what is_? It's alright to _feel _Combeferre, experience it and acknowledge it, don't shove it in a _box _somewhere to study later on!"

Combeferre pressed his lips together and stared at the floor for a very long time. Eventually he said, "I… yes, I do feel irrationally angry. And I almost feel betrayed, though I know I should not."

Jehan tilted his head to the side. "Betrayed? Combeferre, just because Enjolras is in love with Courfeyrac doesn't mean that he is any less your friend."

Combeferre broke away and went to sort through the books and papers on his desk, meticulously organizing them. "It's not that at all, I have never doubted Enjolras's friendship, that would be like doubting his revolutionary principles, but he- we… it is not… he will be ruined by this, Jehan. If it ever gets out—"

Well here they went again on another ride on the carousel of Combeferre's objections. Jehan flopped onto Combeferre's bed and flipped over so that he could hang upside down. It was his favorite position to think in; one always saw the world in a deliciously new way. And the blood rushed to one's head, which Jehan was sure helped stimulate the thought process. He twisted slightly so that he could keep an eye on Combeferre's trouser legs.

"Combeferre, I've heard Courfeyrac talk to you about this time and time again. Even if it does, who would believe it? It's stupid and upsetting that society is the way it is, but society is so false it wouldn't see the truth if it stood right… in… front…." Jehan trailed off. "I thought as much. I mentioned it to Courfeyrac, this only confirms it. Combeferre, you are more personally invested in this than even _you're _willing to acknowledge."

Combeferre dropped an armful of books and papers in alarm and immediately stopped to the floor to pick them up. "I am _not_, I happen to care very deeply for Courfeyrac and Enjolras and I don't want to see them ruin their lives for a few _kisses_ and—"

"And you're not even convincing yourself anymore," said Jehan. "They will be equally ruined if it gets out that they are revolutionaries." He sat up and scowled. "Combeferre stop _lying _to yourself, you are not doing _anyone _any favors by it!"

"What would you like me to say Jehan?" Combeferre demanded, crumpling up a sheet of paper and flinging it away from the rest of the pile. "That I feel like my oldest friend has betrayed me and I can't even say how or why? That's the truth of it."

"Take a minute to sort it out, and then tell me why, in your mind, you've got this whole situation, which is as right and true and as good a thing as a republic, mixed up with an old friendship and the feeling that Enjolras is somehow betraying you." Jehan pulled off his boots (he had a feeling it was going to be a very long discussion indeed) and hugged one knee to his chest, letting the other one hang over the edge. "Alright, let's start with- with the idea of _betrayal_. I mean, a betrayal is a straight-forward enough concept. You feel that Enjolras has, for whatever reason, done something you were certain he would not do. Did he ever promise you that he wasn't going to fall in love?"

"It's not that," said Combeferre, slightly exasperated. "It's…."

Jehan waited for several moments, and then began swinging his leg back and forth.

"It's simply that I thought him… untouched by the sexual impulse. It wasn't ever anything we talked about."

"Does it upset you that you've had to talk about it?" Jehan asked shrewdly.

Combeferre flushed, took off his glasses and began polishing them. "I… must say Jehan, I feel unsettled to have to analyze this as if it were a geode."

"So you dislike talking about it and you and Enjolras have never discussed it," Jehan concluded.

Combeferre paused and stared at his glasses. "It… the limited experience I have had with it is tied to boarding school bullying. Even if that had been my only source of knowledge, philosophy and theology assure us that it is a sin—"

"Voltaire calls it a harmless one," Jehan pointed out.

"—and most other philosophes point at it as a symptom of abuses in schools run by Jesuits and other figures of religious authority who abuse the sacred trust of their offices."

Jehan tilted his head to the side and considered this a moment. "Oh, I see."

"What?" asked Combeferre, holding his glasses to the light, in search of smudges.

"You've got this idea in your head that love between two men is always some kind of bullying and power struggle," Jehan said simply, "and you thought Enjolras agreed with you."

Combeferre looked at him with mild alarm. "I don't—"

"Courfeyrac mentioned that something specifically happened in boarding school to Enjolras. I know it didn't affect you the same way, you just observed it as an example of what society always told you was true. Did you ever talk to Enjolras? His cause was really specific."

After a few moments, Combeferre shoved his glasses back on and began shuffling around his books and papers.

"I'll take that as a no," said Jehan, flopping onto his back and looking at the ceiling for a bit. "_You _thought that he was just going to think the same as you on that subject forever, and you were both just going to ignore it in favor of something else. You feel betrayed that he's not doing it now, and that he's thinking of it in a way completely opposite to you. In fact, I think that you're upset that he is confronting an issue that you don't want to confront."

"I wish you would stop telling me how I feel," Combeferre said irritably.

"I will stop when _you_ say it yourself. It's _alright _to feel Combeferre, not everything has to be treated with doctorial detachment." Jehan was still lying on his back, idly looking at the way the winter sunlight seemed to spill across the ceiling.

"Not every passion has to be indulged, the way Courfeyrac does it. True maturity comes from mastery of one's passions, of understanding the consequences of one's actions and accepting them-"

"And what makes you think that Courfeyrac does not know and accept the consequences of his actions?" Jehan demanded, swinging himself upright. "I assure you, he does, and, when it comes down to it, he'd make the same choice every time. He knows how much he might sacrifice, Combeferre, even if he doesn't act like it. You know how social and affectionate Courfeyrac is. He'd be really hurt if he was forced out of society, but he's willing to risk it- which is not to say that he has not taken precautions against it," Jehan added on, seeing Combeferre about to protest. "No one would believe it if someone accused him. I mean, out of all of our friends, only you and I know that they are in love. Musichetta might, she's much brighter about these sorts of things than any of the rest of us, and she's really close to Courfeyrac, but aside from her and us, no one. He didn't tell anyone."

"No, but what could kept it from slipping out in a moment of overindulgence?"

"That isn't in Courfeyrac's nature. I'm surprised that you could even think that." Jehan leveled his clear, gray gaze on Combeferre. "You know what I think Combeferre?"

Combeferre bowed his head, staring sightlessly at the piles of books before him. "What?"

"I think all these accusations against Courfeyrac's character are because you resent him."

Combeferre looked up sharply. "I do _not _resent Courfeyrac; he is one of my dearest friends—"

"You resent him," Jehan continued on imperturbably, "at least a little bit because he is the reason Enjolras is not _ignoring _a part of himself the way you are. You resent him because Courfeyrac is _not _ignoring all the reasons you've come up with so that you can just _shut away _a part of yourself and so that you don't have to even acknowledge your passions."

"I perfectly acknowledge my passions—"

Jehan threw his hands up in the air. "I'm not talking about silkworm moths Combeferre! Or- or _geodes _or the heart valves or anything like that. Those are academic passions, intellectual ones that you can safely acknowledge because you don't have to get emotional about them. They are things that give you pleasure and that benefit society and all and… they are _comfortably _real, they're ways to understand the reality you're tied to. I mean…." Jehan flopped down on the bed again. "You're not Enjolras; he exists outside of things a lot of the time. You don't. You're very much a part of the world and all. The way society is directly affects how you think and feel and act."

"I cannot refute you on that point," said Combeferre, with a return to his usual, academic, mildness. There was an almost Enjolriac chilliness to his tone so Jehan hopped off the bed and grabbed Combeferre by the shoulders.

"Don't shut me out like this Combeferre. I know it's not comfortable for you, but when _is _the truth comfortable? It throws your life out of order, as well it _should _if we are taught to have a life of lies that will make us comfortable instead of setting us free." Combeferre looked up at that point, grim, his lips pressed together.

"You don't believe me," said Jehan, suddenly hurt by this. "You don't- _Combeferre _I realize that you have to change the way… the way you see yourself almost, but isn't it better to know just who you are? And not just… drift on, as who your parents and your teachers and your society have told you to be?" Combeferre was looking at the floor, either angry or deep in thought and so Jehan pressed on. "I was raised a Protestant- a strict one, Combeferre. I was told every day of my life what to believe and how to behave and- and when I worked up the courage to tell my father that something was missing, that I wasn't happy with what he had given me to work with he just took me to join the Freemasons, which was wonderful but _wasn't enough_. It was only part of who I was. I had to come to Paris and start really _reading _and _thinking _for myself and going to lectures other than the ones at the Sorbonne before I realized I was Jehan. If that makes sense? I mean… it takes a while to discover yourself. Sometimes it's really reassuring to have found it, even though it's disturbing that what makes you happy isn't something that most people in your life would think is alright. Other times it's really frightening because it's so new and you've never had to deal with it in your life before. But it's who you are and it's better to know it and embrace it than to hide it away."

Combeferre said nothing, and stared almost sightlessly at his desk. Jehan waited patiently, squeezing Combeferre's shoulders. After several minutes had passed, Combeferre raised a hand to run it through his hair, to put it back in order, and then thoughtfully lowered it. "I… the two of us never exactly fit in with the rest of our schoolfellows," said Combeferre, albeit reluctantly. "Perhaps it _was _the secret sympathy of the invert. We could not recognize it at the time, but…."

"No one's saying that maybe played a part," Jehan replied, "but that's hardly all that it is. You compliment and correct each other. You have the same beliefs and interests—certainly not the same way of seeing the world, that's sort of obvious now, but you both have very similar ideas of the future. It's natural that you would be hurt that suddenly there is this difference between you two- but perhaps Enjolras can correct you as you correct him."

Combeferre let out a strangled sound that might have been an attempt at a laugh. "It has been the business of my life to correct myself, Jehan. I have not succeeded. Even Enjolras has not-"

"There's nothing to correct."

"Of course there is. I am the problem to be corrected and my methods have not worked, if you could- could _see what I am _so easily."

"Combeferre, the _problem _is that you are defining yourself by something incidental. We all love, that's what it is to be human. What you love is sometimes involuntary, but that doesn't mean it's limiting. It's not like you have to- if there was an _Encylcopedie _of people, you wouldn't have an article that goes 'Combeferre: invert'. That's not all of who you are. Who you like kissing is largely incidental to what defines you, just the way what you like to eat is incidental to what defines you. I mean, liking to kiss boys is… I don't know, as much an influence as liking to eat bread. No one goes around introducing a friend as, say, 'Jean, who likes bread'."

"It is often one's profession," Combeferre said.

"When one is lucky enough to have a _vocation _instead of a job, then yes," replied Jehan, chipperly.

"How would you define yourself then?" asked Combeferre.

"I don't think I could," Jehan said thoughtfully. "I suppose I would put, 'Jehan Prouvaire: Romantic poet', since that seems to me the best way to convey the contradictions and changes and circumstances that make up who I am, but even that seems… I don't know, I don't see why we always need to define ourselves."

"There is a comfort in categorization, and besides, it makes it much easier to understand the world. If we break it down into bits and rationally analyze it—"

Jehan could not help but laugh. "Oooh Combeferre, really. How does one rationally analyze the imagination? How can one dissect and dream and study its pieces under a microscope?" Jean shook his head and twisted up his long hair to keep it out of his face. "I love you like a brother Combeferre, but sometimes I don't think you get Romanticism at all."

"How would you define it?"

"Ooooh there you go _again_, Combeferre. It's- it's…." Jehan made a growling noise of frustration and began poking around Combeferre's desk for a hair ribbon. Not finding one, he just gave up and let his hair fall down around his shoulders. "It's being _free_. That's about as much as I can say. It's- Hugo said it's liberalism in art, but it's so much _more_, it's a way of life, it's a way of thinking, it's a way of making and creating- it's _life_, but not as we know it. It's what life could be if we had the chance to let it be everything it is capable of being. It's reconciling the differences and opposites of everyday life by uniting reason and feeling in the imagination. It is the chance to do so. It's _liberty_."

Combeferre was sitting in the desk chair, hands lightly clasped and his elbows balanced on his knees. He looked thoughtfully at Jehan, his dark hair falling over his forehead in almost a poetic way, like a curtain half- lifted. Jehan stored the metaphor away for later use; it was a good image.

Someone knocked on the door and another intern poked his head in. "Combeferre, starting the evening rounds. Are you coming?"

"Oh- yes," Combeferre said distractedly, running a hand through his hair to put it back in order and picking up his blue overcoat. "I am on my way- have we discovered whether or not the patient in bed three of our ward has tuberculosis or not? She has manifested a number of the symptoms, but I believe we, thankfully, caught it early—" He turned to Jehan and said, "Shall I see you out?"

"It's alright," said Jehan. "The last time we talked philosophy it took you a week to think everything over. I can show myself out. I have to rush home and feed Herbert."

"Herbert?" asked the other intern, curious.

"My lobster," Jehan said proudly, putting his boots back on. "He eats raw mollusks from my hand now, it's very charming."

"I shall… take your word on that one," said the intern, after a moment. He began backing down the hall. "Rounds and all, and ah… early stage tuberculosis in bed three."

Combeferre put a hand on Jehan's shoulder and squeezed. "Goodbye Jehan, thank you." He paused and then, with a visible effort at being light and easy, "I'll see you at the Musain when I have an evening free."

"I will see you there in two weeks then," Jehan replied, cheerfully, "once you have had time to think everything over. I have given you a lot to think about, I believe."

"Quite," Combeferre replied dryly.

Jehan tilted his head to the side to consider this. "I suppose I ought to have lead you to the truth instead of forcing you to stare straight into its blaze of the sublime- you always preferred the glow of the beautiful- but you once told me, Combeferre, that there is nothing greater than being free. And that's the truth."

Combeferre was silent for a long time, until he finally said, "Yes, it is."


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Apologies for the… um, year long hiatus, but real life got in the way, i.e. honors thesis, college and now job. Hopefully I will be able to finish this and post updates on a semi-regular basis now. Many thanks to scarfmouse, who prodded me into picking the threads of this story again and provided several very clever knots, to continue the metaphor.

* * *

For about two weeks, Combeferre had been gathering evidence.

He did not like to rush into a judgment and, though he was a spiritual man as opposed to a religious one, he adhered to the scientific method as strictly as any member of the Judeo-Christian tribe tried to abide by the Ten Commandments.

He had not meant to take Jehan seriously. He _had _meant to come up with a pithy one-liner to put the matter to rest so that he could focus on his studies and his work at Necker. Instead, he found himself watching for couples in the street, or studying the quiet languages of looks and gestures between lovers in cafés.

Combeferre had not even realized he had been doing it until he was in the backroom of the Musain one day, his notebook open before him. The lure of a blank page was an insurmountable temptations at the best of times and he found himself scribbling:

'Musichetta and Joly at dinner the other evening:

-M made sure he ate

-J could not seem to keep from touching her

-smiled when looked at each other

-J seems much less anxious when M is present

-what can one classify as the physical manifestations of love?

Combeferre glanced over his notes in an absent-minded way. He felt briefly annoyed at what he found, since Enjolras was sitting across the table, turning over the pages of a newspaper stuck in a heavy wooden bar meant to keep students from stealing the papers. It had never stopped any student before. In more hated and less frequented cafés, it was a point of pride between Bahorel, Bousset and Courfeyrac to see who could steal the most newspapers, or free the most pages from the bar without tearing them. Generally Courfeyrac won, unless the newsprint smudged on his waistcoat and he dropped all the papers out of vexation.

Courfeyrac burst into the backroom, half-covered in snow and clattering his cane around enthusiastically. Courfeyrac had been in roaringly high spirits as of late, so wildly happy that everyone who saw him immediately sprang forward to say something about the success of _Hernani._

Joly took up the role this time, turning away from his game of dominos with Grantaire to exclaim, "Courfeyrac, today someone from the medical school almost challenged another fellow to a duel over our corpse."

"The competition for spare body parts is still so fierce?" Combeferre asked, intrigued.

Joly shuddered. "Thankfully, no. None of the fellows sharing my corpses are quite as, er… keen—" with the unspoken inference 'as you were' "—to take home a leg to dissect on the kitchen table. No, one of them said that he heard _Hernani _was horrific and an offense to decency, and the other said _he _was an offense to decency, and then the first fellow said, no, what was an offense to decency is what he did with the other fellow's mother last night, and then the other fellow said, well tell that to the barrel of my pistol and I said that they had ruptured the appendix."

Courfeyrac clapped a gloved hand on Joly's velvet-lapelled shoulder. "I am so glad that _Hernani _still arouses passions fit to burst any appendix. Has Enjolras come in yet?"

Combeferre kept his eyes on Courfeyrac, noting the sudden, additional brightness to his expression when Enjolras calmly put down his paper. There was a quiet contentedness to Enjolras that Combeferre had not noticed before. Enjolras was still as transcendent as ever, still as focused on the ideal and the archetypical, but he seemed to have an easier and happier time of wedding those ideas to reality, and he was making more stealthy puns than was his wont.

That was certainly Courfeyrac's bad influence, but Combeferre was not sure that Enjolras's newfound humor was a bad thing. It was… certainly strange to see Enjolras enjoying anything, but he treated Courfeyrac with his usual seriousness, if tempered with a warmth Enjolras had always possessed but seldom expressed.

"Hello Courfeyrac. The weather has not chilled your spirits."

"I am a beakerful of the warm south," Courfeyrac replied cheerfully, throwing an amused look at Enjolras's direction. To Combeferre's surprise, Enjolras was provoked into a half-smile. "Great news—_three _of the privates from the Romantic Army have convinced their fathers to let them have hunting guns. Once it's the season, I shall probably have to bother my parents into letting me use their house for a hunting party, but you will attend will you not?"

"Of course, though Combeferre might be better suited to it."

Combeferre felt the back of his neck heat up. "I only mean to stockpile for future need."

"How many are in your collection now?" Courfeyrac asked, dropping into a chair by Enjolras with feigned carelessness. Enjolras looked at Courfeyrac with faint traces of anxiety, as Courfeyrac absent-mindedly began to massage his injured thigh.

"Is your leg still paining you?" Combeferre asked.

Courfeyrac made a face Combeferre had last seen on a club-footed boy at Necker, who had particularly wanted any attention paid towards his foot. "It's only the cold. It twinges a bit whenever I pass police officers, too, and there were a few by the law school today. I think they must have heard of your friend's dueling plans, Joly. I notice you avoided my question, Combeferre. How many guns _do _you own now? I have very kindly left out any mention of swords, daggers, cannons, explosives, crossbows, slings and arrows, of outrageous fortune or otherwise—"

"Every man has his passions," Enjolras interjected calmly, tapping Courfeyrac on the inside of the wrist. "These friends of yours—have they any political opinions?"

"Many contradictory ones, which is why I need you."

A look of slightly surprised happiness flitted across Enjolras's face. It was always nice to be needed, Combeferre thought. It must feel like something extraordinary when one was needed by the person one loved.

Bahorel came blustering into the backroom, shaking off snow the way Newfoundlands shook off water. "Rather quiet today."

"It's early yet," said Joly, examining the dominos before him.

"The snow probably has something to do with it," Courfeyrac added. "Most big revolutionary movements take place in the summer. We stormed the Bastille in July, the Scottish rebelled against the book of Common Prayer in the summer of… er…."

"1637," Enjolras supplied.

"Right!"

"I hesitate to remind you that Charles I fled London in January, thereby precipitating the English Civil War," Combeferre interjected, dryly.

"… that was a civil war, not a revolution. In the Americas—"

"The Boston Tea Party took place in December."

Courfeyrac smiled wrly. "Well, there went that theory."

Enjolras touched Courfeyrac's sleeve lightly, a very discreet caress. "You tried."

"So, no matter the season, people will rebel against ill treatment by their governments," Joly suggested. "Makes one feel rather hopeful. After all, the Battle of _Hernani _took place in February and revolutionary ardor boiled just as hot as if it were July. Perhaps people will get angry enough or tired enough by March—"

"I don't agree," interrupted Grantaire.

Enjolras looked up with traces of surprise and excitement. "You do not? Tell us, then, Grantaire, what your opinions are."

Enjolras had clearly looked forward to this moment since Grantaire had followed Joly and Bahorel to the backroom of the Musain after a very boozy luncheon elsewhere, like an alcoholic stray. Jehan had often expressed his surprise at Grantaire's continuing presence there after Enjolras practiced a very serious speech on stagnant wages among the working poor, but Combeferre had seen Grantaire's look of longing, that Platonic almost Erotic love of the good and the beautiful which uplifted and transformed.

He was likewise unsurprised that Enjolras allowed him to stay. Enjolras had the curious ability to see both a person as he was and how he could ideally be. Early on he had mixed up the two, but Courfeyrac's influence appeared to be reconciling the two as opposed to confusing them.

Combeferre jotted a note down on his sheet of paper as Grantaire cleared his throat.

"I have very many opinions, though I am willing to change any to please you."

Enjolras slightly raised his blond eyebrows. "I would not have you change your politics, merely explain them."

And so Grantaire did. Or tried to do.

What Grantaire actually managed to do was equivocate about kings and tyrants before getting distracted by _Oedipus Rex, _making some terrible puns about sons, sun-kings, and unfortunate motherfuckers, before getting further derailed into a confusing and extremely impolite rant about the oddities of romantic relationships throughout Greek mythology. Enjolras preserved in listening until the last, despite the startled and confused looks Joly kept casting at him, and the bored looks Bahorel kept shooting at Grantaire.

Courfeyrac kept absent-mindedly rubbing his thigh but, at the more offensive parts, pretended to stretch his leg so that he could nudge Enjolras's foot with his own.

Combeferre made another note.

"So," said Enjolras, after a moment, "you equate the Divine Right of Kings with the abuses of the Greek pantheon?"

Grantaire had not been sure that was what he thought, and took ten more, very confusing and profanity-filled minutes to establish that he had no idea what, if anything, he had just said. It was a very sad ten minutes for French oratory. Generally, Grantaire made up in classical allusions what he lacked in coherence, but Enjolras was taking him seriously (Enjolras always did, it was only that Grantaire always failed to realize it) and it had bewildered Grantaire entirely.

"Well," said Bahorel, after they had all been bored into a stupor by the force of Grantaire's loud and increasingly incoherent rhetoric, "I think everyone in the room is now dumber for having heard that."

Courfeyrac had listened to the speech in increasing annoyance. He kept trying to move his leg so that it would stop hurting, and, whenever Enjolras wasn't looking, would wince. "I don't think I have heard more words spoken without anything even close to a rational thought present amongst them. Bravo Grantaire. You have the honor of having said some of the most insanely idiotic things I have ever heard, and I have been to Saint-Cloud. May God have mercy on your soul."

"I have heard that so many times over the years," Grantaire said comfortably. "That reassures me that all is right in the world."

"I ought to give up on you," Courfeyrac grumbled. "I rarely give up on people! I still take Marius Pontmercy out to lunch, but Grantaire, it is impossible to get you to take anything seriously. The number of chances we have given you—all we ask in return is for some glimmer of intelligence—"

"Courfeyrac," Combeferre said warningly.

"Let the lawyer do his best," Grantaire replied. "It is his job to defame all the characters of those around him."

"That's not fair," Courfeyrac snapped. "I lost my temper, I admit it, but do you expect me to keep it after you reject all the ideals of Greek political thought in one sentence, praise kings and tyranny the next, and then suggest all the Greeks had to offer were—was, rather, shameful erotica?"

"The Greek system is not without its flaws," Combeferre interjected. "What of the status of women? And we cannot forget the existence of slavery—"

Joly blew his nose, loudly. "I am too ill for any more of this. I already feel like my brain is leaking out of my ears." He assumed the doctoral tones that Combeferre had been at some pains to teach him last year. "Courfeyrac, your leg is hurting, so you ought to have a glass of hot wine, go home and lay down. Grantaire, you are drunk, so you ought to just go home. I have a dreadful cold, so I ought to go home to be petted and made much of by Musichetta."

"Rub in Rosalie's desertion again, why don't you?" snarled Bahorel.

"We are all in a temper today, aren't we?" asked Joly. "An excess of choler perhaps in reaction to the dreadful cold. Grantaire, come on, I can walk you to your apartment on the way to mine. Stop provoking Courfeyrac, his leg hurts."

"It does not!" Courfeyrac protested, without any real heat.

Joly sneezed. "I _am _a medical student, Courfeyrac."

"You _did _diagnose yourself with tuberculosis last week, when it turned out to be a cold."

Joly ignored him and instead began putting on his various winter layers. "Bahorel, I have no idea what to diagnose you, but if want to come over and beg Musichetta to intervene, you can." He sneezed again. "Oh dear, I think this cold is turning pneumatic. Does I sound pneumatic to you, Combeferre?"

"No, merely hysteric."

After the other three left, Enjolras looked at Courfeyrac, who wilted at once. "All right, so it is hurting. It's _cold _out."

"All the more reason for you to take care. You almost slipped on the ice three days ago."

"You caught me, so it hardly matters," Courfeyrac mumbled, working himself into a fine sulk.

Enjolras calmly interrupted Louison's journey to the scullery to ask for a glass of red wine.

Courfeyrac grumbled for form's sake, but he drank the glass when it came.

It was astonishing how they took care of each other, Combeferre reflected. Each read the other so well and knew just how to edge behind the defenses the other put up to help—in such a quiet, effective way, with such caring behind each seemingly accidental touch.

From then on, Combeferre began keeping notes on Courfeyrac and Enjolras, and feeling extremely stupid for doing so in the first place. He had always been self-contained and private and unthinkingly assumed everyone else was the same. Even despite frequent contact with Courfeyrac and Jehan, which made Combeferre feel particularly foolish.

Courfeyrac was causing Combeferre particular problems.

Combeferre had, rather stupidly, thought that if people were not intensely private as he was, they could not keep anything private.

Unfortunately, he had to throw this theory out when it became very clear that no one knew about Courfeyrac's feelings for Enjolras aside from Combeferre, Enjolras, Jehan and perhaps Musichetta. (She had the mind of a writer, Combeferre had noted, hoping that might have some relevance to his study of romance. She always noticed little details that everyone else ignored, and her downturned glances were surprisingly shrewd and penetrating. Perhaps that was why Joly liked to say she had the eyes of a fortune teller—unless that was because Musichetta was from the South and potentially from Marseailles? Combeferre made a page of notes on the subject before realizing it had little to no relevance to his actual study. Still, it wasn't entirely his fault; he had no notion of what did and did not constitute romance, and his ignorance annoyed him more than anything else).

There were still signs, if one cared to look for them. Courfeyrac teased Enjolras more gently that he teased anyone else and was more alive to his responses.

What perhaps cinched the matter for Combeferre was when Enjolras gave a speech about joining forces across classes outside, in a snow flurry. Halfway through, it became very clear to Combeferre's trained eye that Enjolras had caught Joly's cold. His usually mellifluous tones became raspy and he punctuated his more thunderous statements with a painful cough.

When Enjolras hoarsely asked for questions and the journeyman printers began discussing amongst themselves, Combeferre tapped him on the shoulder. "Enjolras, you can stop now. Let Feuilly respond to the questions."

Enjolras cleared his throat. It sounded painful. "No, I can keep going. I saw that Courfeyrac went to get me a cup of coffee from that café."

"Coffee will not rehydrate your throat," Combeferre informed him, "though I am pleased to see that you made Courfeyrac exercise his leg before it started to pain him again."

Courfeyrac could almost walk normally, if one ignored how hard he dug his cane into the snow. Courfeyrac presented Enjolras with the coffee and an incredibly warm smile. "There you are! I thought you sounded parched. I think that I technically stole this cup, so you might want to eventually return it before the waitress notices. Ah—yes, I am more-or-less a law student, I can answer your question about the laws governing the press." Courfeyrac launched into a witty and elaborate explanation about censorship, leaning nonchalantly on his cane as if he was spouting off epigrams instead of very dry legalese. Even Feuilly was nodding—albeit grudgingly—in approval.

"Look, Courfeyrac is clearly trying to get you out of the cold," Combeferre tried which, much to his surprise, worked. Enjolras coughed once and gave a wave to Courfeyrac, who shot him a soft smile.

Enjolras took up a paper as soon as he returned to his apartment and seemed inclined to continue working, as long as his sneezes did not make the newsprint run unduly.

"You need bed rest," Combeferre diagnosed. "I would suggest bleeding if I had any of my tools here, but hot liquids and rest will do fine for now." He rambled a little about treatments to make himself feel more comfortable. It was very strange, feeling uncomfortable around Enjolras; he was so used to their quiet, contained, but very layered conversations. Suddenly there was a layer of Enjolras that Combeferre had not known existed. He did not know what to do with it or to do about it, or if he ought to think back on all their past conversations and try to find that hidden layer again.

"Things are… good with Courfeyrac?" Combeferre asked carefully.

Enjolras's smile was slow but brilliant.

"No problems?"

"Aside from this inconvenient cold, no."

"You are… you are happy?"

"Perhaps more than that," Enjolras replied. "I am content."

Courfeyrac entered after barely knocking at that, carrying anything it appeared he thought would be useful to fight off a cold. "Hallo Combeferre! I shall take the first watch. Any instructions."

"I am not in any danger," Enjolras replied, though he coughed halfway through.

"What, and now you deprive me of an excuse to stay the night with you? Cruelty, thy name is—well, not Enjolras actually. The almost annoying large number of chances you give to Grantaire speaks to that."

"You needn't have an excuse to stay the night," Enjolras replied.

Courfeyrac glanced at Combeferre, who hastily excused himself.

Combeferre spent the next three days going over his notes. He did his rounds, he went to the Musain, he scolded Enjolras into resting instead of going outside again, and noted that Courfeyrac made an annoyingly good nurse, and he thought.

At the end of the third day, as he was tidying his little room at Necker, he had arrived at a very astonishing conclusion.

He had been wrong.

The discovery did not shake him as much as he had previously expected it to. Jehan tended to be wiser when it came to the human heart than Combeferre was, even if Jehan could not remember how many chambers the human heart actually possessed. He had been suspecting he was wrong ever since Jehan had walloped him with his hat. Or, perhaps, he had been expecting it ever since he saw Courfeyrac smoking in the shadow of the Comédie-Française, so sure of himself, so full to the brim of well, Courfeyrac, that he was overflowing with it, and yet still so careful when it came to the more self-contained Enjolras. It had taken Combeferre a long time to recognize it, since he never felt full to the brim of anything really.

Combeferre felt agonized and acted out of habit: he went to see Enjolras.

As soon as the concierge let him in, Combeferre realized it was probably not a good idea. Courfeyrac was certainly there. Still, Combeferre walked slowly up the stairs to Enjolras's room, steeled his resolve and knocked on the door. After a moment, Enjolras appeared in his nightshirt, his golden hair tousled from sleep and catching the light from the candle Combeferre had borrowed from the concierge.

"Good evening Combeferre," he said.

"Good evening Enjolras- you are much better?"

"Yes."

There was an awkward pause.

"May I come in?"

Enjolras glanced back in the room. There was the sound a muffled curse, a crash and then a thud.

"I can come back tomorrow," said Combeferre.

Enjolras glanced back in the room again and, after a moment, said, "No, Courfeyrac has only injured his pride. If you don't mind him here, you are welcome to come in."

"I can always exile myself to the other room," Courfeyrac said muffledly.

"There is a printing press in there," Enjolras reminded him, stepping back and allowing Combeferre to come in.

"I've slept in odder places before. I have the remarkable ability to take a cat nap anywhere, and then wake up feeling just as refreshed as if I had slept the night through in my bed."

Combeferre said, "No it's alright. I ought to speak to you too Courfeyrac…." He paused on the threshold, stared determinedly at the ceiling and continued on: "You're naked, aren't you?"

"Uuuh… for given value of _naked _I do have… a… bedsheet."

Combeferre looked resolutely at the ceiling. "I'm going to close the door, you'll get back in bed and we'll try this again, shall we?"

"Right, thanks," said Courfeyrac.

Combeferre grabbed the doorhandle and took a step backwards, shutting the door. After waiting a few moments, he knocked on the door again.

Enjolras, looking highly amused, opened it and said, "Good evening Combeferre."

"Good evening Enjolras. Might I have a word with you?"

Enjolras cleared his throat, presumably to rid himself of the impulse to laugh. "If you do not mind Courfeyrac's presence?"

"Oh not at all, I need to speak with both of you."

This time Combeferre successfully stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. Courfeyrac had had no luck in finding either his nightshirt or the rest of his clothes, as they were scattered around the room at random, but had swaddled himself up in a bedsheet and was sitting on the bed with the comforter pulled over his lap. Enjolras moved the fire screen so that the room was illuminated once more, and added another log to the blaze.

"Hallo Combeferre," Courfeyrac said cheerily. "Have a good round?"

"We managed to treat a case of early tuberculosis and stop the gangrene from spreading in the injured hand of the patient in bed seven, even though we had to amputate the forefinger and part of the middle finger."

"… oh that's… fortunate," said Courfeyrac.

Enjolras's apartment had none of the comforts of Courfeyrac's, or the odd collections of Combeferre's or Jehan's. The original wallpaper had been completely covered by maps, newspaper clippings and a large, full-color print of the Rights of Man and Citizen. Aside from the bed, which Courfeyrac was currently occupying, there was a chest of drawers, a set of bookshelves, a cupboard, and a table with two chairs. Enjolras pulled out one of the chairs from the table quite silently; Combeferre sat in it at once. Enjolras wandered back over to the bed and sat on the edge, allowing Courfeyrac to drape an arm around his waist.

It was oddly difficult to speak. Combeferre smoothed down his bloodstained cuff and cleared his throat. "It… occurs to me that I have… not acted like a true friend ought." He glanced up to see Enjolras and Courfeyrac exchanging a puzzled look.

Combeferre pressed on: "I have been talking to Jehan—"

"Oh!" exclaimed Courfeyrac.

"—and it occurs to me that by… by overemphasizing the risks imposed by our society, when it is not a society that is just, or a society that we like or a society that we particularly wish to uphold, I have caused you two more misery than you would have suffered at the hands of said society. It was never my intent to ruin the happiness of two people I hold as dearly as the two of you, but…." Combeferre looked at his hands and clasped them loosely before him. "I did, inadvertently. It was not… I should not have done it. I was inspired by personal motives more than altruistic ones and I… I very much regret all the anguish I caused- among the two of you and, because of that, among most of our friends. I owe you both my very deepest apologies."

When he looked up, Courfeyrac was draped over Enjolras's shoulders, looking at Combeferre with enough compassion to make Combeferre feel even worse about his past actions. Enjolras was looking thoughtfully at the fire.

"It's alright Combeferre, you did what you thought was right," said Courfeyrac, quite gently.

"But it- it wasn't simply that. I… I shall have to borrow Jehan's phrasing since I cannot fit it into words myself, but the arguments I presented to the two of you were ones I had always had to present to myself. To- to have them disproved in such a way provoked a reaction that I am heartily ashamed of. It is my guiding principle not to judge but… in attempting to be realistic, I have been harmful and… somewhat blinded by my own willful ignorance." He clenched his hands together. "I am ashamed of how of how I acted, of how I… attempted to force the same blindness on you, Enjolras, as I erroneously followed. It was not… justified. I can only hope that you can find it in yourselves to forgive me, as ill as I deserve it."

Much to his surprise, he felt Courfeyrac drape himself over his shoulders and hug him tightly. Combeferre clasped one of Courfeyrac's wrists and pressed it to his heart.

After a moment, however, Combeferre said, "Courfeyrac, you're still naked, aren't you?"

"_I've got a sheet!_"

Combeferre shot Courfeyrac an unamused look and Courfeyrac flopped into the other chair with a billow of bed-linen, in order to sulk more comfortably. Enjolras, smiling faintly, said, "I had wondered."

"I did not quite realize it myself at the time," said Combeferre, feeling the back of his neck heat up. "It's only in talking to Jehan that I… quite realized the extent of my… I suppose it was not quite hypocrisy. I think Jehan phrased it as- as lying to myself. Not intentionally, of course., but it… Enjolras, I simply assumed that we were agreed on the subject because we never talked about it, and our agreement was that… we would ignore it. I recognize it now as assumption and failed reasoning on my part."

"And do you think that you have lied to me?" asked Enjolras.

Combeferre sighed.

"You did not lie to either of us about the hardships of what we chose to do," Enjolras said quietly, getting up and putting a hand on Combeferre's shoulder. "It was good to acknowledge it. I had not before because… quite simply, it had not interested me before and we had other things to discuss."

"And you brought it up with me as soon as it became an issue, Enjolras, and I am still very touched by your trust- I only fear that I advised you… not… from an objective standpoint, where one is simply acknowledging the difficulties of this sort of relationship in our society, but… from the desire to have you agree with me to ignore… parts of ourselves that I would rather have pretended did not exist." Combeferre suddenly could not continue to look at Enjolras, took off his glasses, pulled out his handkerchief and began looking for spots to clean. "I realize now… it is… not possible to do that. Sooner or later one must confront the truth; it forces itself to be acknowledged."

"It's a good thing, I think," said Courfeyrac, fixing his bedsheet so that it looked something like a toga.

"It's not a very comfortable sensation when you have built part of your life around ignoring it," Combeferre replied, wiping his glasses in the hopes that there was dirt on them to remove. "It isn't… Courfeyrac, you are…."

"Yes?" prompted Courfeyrac.

Combeferre sighed. "Not… an invert. At least, not in the sense that I am or I think Enjolras is." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and willed his breathing to become even once again. "Dear god, that was difficult to say."

"Not following, sorry," said Courfeyrac, tilting the chair onto its backlegs.

"You're not… you love Enjolras."

"Very much," Courfeyrac agreed, with a grin.

"But you have loved women in the past."

"Yes, also very much."

"I…." Combeferre furiously polished his glasses. "I haven't. I can't. It's- I have always had a certain _awareness _of what I am, I have always suspected that is why in school I felt, at times, as if there was something keeping me from true equality with my peers, but… Enjolras, you understand me?"

"Yes," he said.

"But even then," Combeferre pressed on, forcing the words out, and feeling almost as if he had self-administered a highly uncomfortable purgative, "but even then Enjolras, it is a matter of- of you loving _Courfeyrac_, not of you… being abnormal. As I have… begun to fear that I am."

"Fuck normal then," said Courferyac. "We're revolutionaries. 'Normal' means stagnation and acceptance of antiquated traditions. It's not something you should be proud to be a part of. Say it with me, Combeferre: fuck normal."

"I can't," said Combeferre.

Enjolras bent down and pressed his forehead to Combeferre's.

"There are others like you," Courfeyrac said gently. "Which… is horrible phrasing. But there's us and I know Jehan has some friends, and there's a couple of ballet dancers I'm friends with—"

"And the men dressed as women in the Tuileries, and the rent boys in the cruising grounds on the outskirts of the city, and the _aunts _in the galleys—"

"That's not all of them, Combeferre," Courfeyrac said chidingly. "And even then, how can you judge? A printer's clerk who publishes some of our pamphlets goes about in petticoats sometimes, just for larks in a couple of safe dance halls, and he adores his wife and has three children with one on the way. And at any rate, you're hardly required to act like them any more than they are required to dissect corpses at the Hotel-Dieu just because you both have something in common. I mean, I'm hardly some powdered fop that wears rogue and minces about. I'm a dandy. We're mortal enemies with the fops."

"_Yes_, but you also like women. You can pass as normal and _acceptable. _You are still considered a functioning, moral member of society. I don't, I can't and I'm not. I like women very much as companions, yes, as partners in conversation- but as… as lovers, I've never had any interest."

"Nor have I," Enjolras said quietly, as Courfeyrac got up again and very gently squeezed Combeferre's shoulders. "You are not alone, Combeferre."

Combeferre clenched his hands together tightly and pressed his forehead against Enjolras's, trying to will away the grief and the anxiety and the continual confusion of being something he had always been taught should not exist.


End file.
